The Book Knights

by J. G. McKenney

“He won’t be so scary if Big Billy finds him on the island. The Corp’ration ain’t supposed to mess with us. That’s the deal Big Billy made with…whatsername.”

  “Morgan Fay.”

  Gal nodded. “Yeah, everyone calls her the Witch on the Hill. They say she spends all her time up there castin’ spells.”

  Arti frowned at Gal, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Gal reclined on the bench with her hands behind her head. “I ain’t sayin’ I believe it. I’m just tellin’ you what people say.”

  Arti was going to add that there was no such thing as magic, but then she remembered what the Incendi officer did to her on the bridge. And what about her escape from the burning library? She only found her way through the smoke and flames because she thought she heard the books talk to her. What if it hadn’t been her imagination?

  “The bottom line is we can’t let the Flame find you,” said Gal. “So the Docks are off limits for a while. We’ll scrounge the West End. There ain’t as much coin to be made around Cobden and Driftwood, but it ain’t likely he’ll look for you there. And we got enough to last us a while.” She mumbled through a mouthful of vegetables. “Now you know why I said your plan to go back into Main’s crazy. Go anywhere near the bridges and you’re dead meat. I ain’t never heard of a Flame chasin’ a reader like this; he must be real mad you got away.”

  “There has to be more to it than that,” said Arti. She looked up at Gal with steely determination. “But I’m still going back.”

  “But it ain’t…but you can’t…” Gal realized it was useless. “Just give it a while,” she relented, “‘til the heat’s off.”

  Winning the argument did little to raise Arti’s spirits. Gal was right, if the Flame was still hunting her, the chances of getting off the island were bad enough. How could she think she’d be able to get to her parents, let alone save them? And what if it was already too late?

  It was a possibility Arti refused to accept. They’re still there. She couldn’t let go of that last thread of hope, knowing that if she did the whole fabric of her life would come apart.

  Arti looked up at The King’s Errand resting on the shelf. There was only one chapter to go before she’d hand it over to Gal to finish. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I don’t feel like reading tonight.”

  Unsettled by her sighting of the Incendi captain the night before, Arti slept late. It was almost noon by the time she and Gal arrived at Cobden Street near the island’s western shore. Vacant lots covered in tall grass and saplings divided fields of crumbling asphalt backed by low rise buildings, shops and malls long since abandoned.

  As they turned down Center Street, Gal pointed to a building with a towering steeple atop its arching front facade. All of the structure’s windows were gone, and a tree was growing through the concrete base anchoring the large sign at its entrance. She read the words on the sign, pronouncing each syllable as Arti had taught her.

  “The…Cam…el…Lot.”

  “That’s right,” praised Arti. “You’re getting good.” Gal winked back at her proudly.

  Below the name, there was a cartoon image of a camel with an undulating back, words emerging in a bubble from its open mouth: “Buy at the Humps, Save at the Pumps.” A couple old wrecks sat adjacent to the building, windshields smashed, hoods, doors, and wheels missing.

  “They sold cars,” said Arti.

  “No kiddin’,” chirped Gal. “How’d you figure that out?”

  Arti stopped and put her hands on her hips in mock disgust. “You can be a real pain, you know that?”

  They stepped over the low sill of one of the building’s large front windows and began searching for anything of value that might have escaped the eyes of previous looters. The place had been stripped clean, only bits of wire and cable remained, hanging from its ceiling like metallic spider webs. While Gal explored one of the rooms, Arti walked down a long hallway until she came to an exit that opened onto a back lot. The steel door had been pulled from its jamb and hung precariously by a single rusty hinge.

  A garage with three large open bays faced the broken door where Arti stood. Two of the cavernous spaces were empty, save for a few tangled birds’ nests stuffed into crevices where the roof trusses and the block walls met. Arti was surprised to see a vehicle parked in the third bay, a box-shaped motorhome staring out from the shadows. Surprisingly, it appeared to be in good condition, with headlights and windows intact, and front tires that looked to be full of air. She guessed that it couldn’t have been there long, or it would have been stolen or stripped.

  As Arti pondered the unexpected presence of the motorhome, she noticed a man crossing the back lot, heading toward it. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties—though Arti had never been good at guessing people’s ages—and he was dressed in a knit sweater and khaki pants. His hair was neatly cut and combed, and a small goatee adorned his chin. He looked around cautiously, then knocked on the motorhome’s narrow side door, before entering the vehicle.

  Curiosity trumped caution, and Arti crept stealthily across the lot to investigate. She ducked low with her back pressed against the side of the motorhome and edged her way toward the vehicle’s large side window. She could hear two men arguing.

  “Is this some sort of joke?” said one.

  “No, I assure you,” said the other, in a voice that sounded older.

  “I came here because I was told you were offering a serious commission with a significant advance. Instead, you want to play parlor tricks?” It was the man with the goatee, concluded Arti.

  “This is no trick. It’s a simple question: What do you see?”

  “Ridiculous!” protested the younger man, his anger rising. “I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.”

  Arti could feel the vehicle shake against her back; there was movement inside. She was about to hide but hesitated when she heard the older man speak again.

  “That was not my intention, sir. I’m simply looking for someone who can answer my question. Apparently, you cannot.” There was more shuffling. “Take this payment for your troubles. And please, tell no one about our meeting—for your own safety.”

  “You’re mad!” said the younger man.

  The motorhome shook again, and Arti scrambled behind it as the side door opened. The young man emerged, glancing nervously at his surroundings before walking quickly around the main building toward the street. Arti crept back along the side of the vehicle and crouched below the window again. She was surprised to hear the old man still talking—apparently to himself.

  “Maybe I am mad,” he grumbled.

  Arti straightened from her crouch, stretching just high enough to look inside. The man held his bald head low, chin against his chest, gloved hands covering his face. A massive book covered a small table in front of him.

  “Who’s there?” asked the man, dropping his hands suddenly.

  Arti crouched down, frozen with fear.

  “I don’t appreciate being spied upon.” There was a pause. “I know you’re there,” said the man, a little louder, so he could be sure she could hear him. The vehicle vibrated, and a moment later, its side door opened, and he poked his head out. “I don’t usually offer hospitality to strangers who peek in my window, but I just made tea, if you’d like some.”

  Arti knew she should run. That she should race back into the building, find Gal and get away from this place as fast as her feet could carry her. But there was something in the old man’s demeanor, the gentleness of his invitation that made her hesitate. There was also the book. Could he be a reader?

  “How do I know I can trust you?” asked Arti, breaking her silence.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” came the man’s reply. Watery blue eyes smiled through a web of wrinkles. “My name is Merl. What’s yours, young lady?”

  “Arti,” she answered, immediately angry at herself for volunteering the information.

  “Arti,” he repeated, thoughtfully.
“And your friend?”

  “Friend?”

  “The one hiding under my home,” he said, nodding at the ground. “You’re both welcome to join me inside; the tea’s almost ready.”

  Arti bent down and peered beneath the vehicle, surprised to see Gal there, sprawled on her back, knife in hand, a puzzled look on her face.

  Against Gal’s objections, Arti was determined to take Merl up on his offer.

  “He seems harmless enough,” whispered Arti. “And there are two of us; what could he do?”

  “Seems and is ain’t the same thing,” hissed Gal.

  Arti started up the van’s steps and turned. “Coming?”

  Gal shook her head in frustration and reluctantly followed.

  Arti paused again at the top step. To her left, below the level of her feet, was the driver’s compartment: a bucket seat behind a steering wheel, separated from the passenger seat by a wide center console. To her right was a ten by six box crammed with all the amenities of a modern home. Along one side, next the window, was a line of tiny cupboards suspended above a miniature cooktop, sink, and refrigerator. Along the other, beneath a yellow dome light on the ceiling, was a U-shaped booth with high backed seats covered in vinyl that wrapped around a small circular table holding three white cups and a dented silver tea pot. The rear of the van held more cupboards suspended at eye level and, below them, a wide cushioned bench with a blanket and pillow resting on it. The large book Arti had seen through the window was gone.

  “Come in, come in,” said Merl. He had a kind manner, and the tone of his voice was gentle and disarming. “How do you take it?”

  “We didn’t take nothin’!” blurted Gal.

  Merl laughed. “No, I mean how do you take your tea?”

  The girls looked at each other for help. “The same way you’re having it would be fine,” suggested Arti.

  “Black it is,” said Merl. He looked up at the girls and gestured to the booth wrapping the round table. “Please, sit.”

  Merl poured the tea and passed the cups carefully to Gal and Arti. “This is the last of my Crentian Herb. I hope you enjoy it as much as I.” He smiled again, waiting for them to try it.

  Gal looked down at the steaming drink. “You ain’t tryin’ to drug us, are you?”

  Merl was appalled. “Of course not!” He frowned at Gal and traded cups with her. “Just to put you at ease,” he said. The old man lifted the swapped mug to his lips and gently blew on it. Then he closed his eyes and took a sip. “Mmmm, wonderful.”

  Arti lifted her own cup to her mouth and breathed in the tea’s aroma, a sumptuous blend of fruit and spices. Working up enough courage, she also drank.

  “It’s really good,” she declared. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  “One of the benefits of travel,” said Merl, grinning. “You discover such delicacies.” He grunted, “But then you can’t live without them.”

  Gal ignored the small talk. “What’s with the gloves?” she asked.

  “Gal!” Arti hissed with embarrassment.

  Merl continued to smile, but the joy in his eyes was gone. “It’s alright, Arti. I don’t mind.” He set his cup down and adjusted the tea pot on the table. “I was injured…in a fire, many years ago. My hands were burned quite badly.” Merl flexed his gloved fingers. “They still get a little stiff sometimes, and they can be tender, so I wear these for protection. In fact, there are days when it feels like I just pulled them from the flames.” He stared at his hands for a moment, before looking across the table at his guests. “What brings two young ladies to this end of town? Do you live nearby?”

  “We were just looking around,” said Arti. Her tone became apologetic. “I’m sorry for spying on you. It’s just that I saw the other man come inside your…” she looked around, “…home, and I was curious.”

  “I understand,” said Merl. “No harm done.” He brushed his gloved hand across the table, as if wiping away crumbs. “Just forget about it. We’ll pretend it never happened. Okay?”

  “Who was he?” asked Gal.

  Merl’s expression darkened. Gone were the grandfatherly warmth and the welcoming smile. “I don’t wish to be rude, but I’d appreciate it if you could finish your tea. Sorry to rush you, but I have some important matters to attend to.”

  “It has something to do with the book, doesn’t it?” asked Arti. The question seemed to suck all the air out of the motorhome.

  Merl stood up, nearly bumping his head on the cupboard above the booth. “I’m sorry, but you have to go.”

  Gal frowned at Arti. “What book?”

  “There was a big book on the table,” explained Arti. She nodded at Merl. “He asked the man to tell him what he saw, but he couldn’t. He thought it was a trick.” She searched Merl’s icy blue eyes. “He must not have been able to read.”

  Merl was flustered. “I don’t know what you think you heard or saw but—” He stopped in mid-sentence, realizing what Arti just said. Moving very slowly, he returned to his seat and placed his gloved hands on the round table as if to steady himself. The intensity of his stare was unsettling.

  “What…did you see?”

  “I told you,” she said, looking down. “There was a big book open on this table. The page had some writing on it—a bit on the top and more in the middle. It looked like a poem or something. I was too far away to make it out.”

  Merl was astonished. “You can read?”

  “She sure can,” said Gal. “I can, too,” she added proudly.

  Merl scrambled to his feet, hastily squeezing past the girls on his way to the back of the compartment. He lifted the lid on the wide rear bench, casting away the pillow and blanket that were resting there, revealing a hollow cavity filled with books. On top was a huge tome over two feet across and so thick that Merl’s gloved hands could barely grasp it.

  He lugged the huge book to the round table, leaning it on its spine as he frantically set aside the cup and tea pot. The tome’s back cover was missing, a number of pages were also gone, and those that remained looked as if their edges had been burned away. The scent of charcoal wafted in the air as Merl gently arranged the book on the table, rotating it for Arti. The thick, yellowed pages made cracking sounds as he slowly turned to one of three places marked with gold string.

  The old man was shaking. “What do you see?” he asked, holding his breath.

  Arti looked up at Merl, then down at the huge page in front of her. “It’s written in a language I don’t understand,” she said. “I can’t read it.”

  “What do you mean? ’Cept for the top bit, it’s just a bunch of letters all over the place,” said Gal, looking at Arti like she’d lost her sense. “’Course you can’t read it!”

  Merl ignored the younger girl. He wetted his lips and swallowed. “Try, Arti.”

  “What part? The line at the top or the ones in the middle?”

  Gal tried to interrupt again, but Merl raised his hand for quiet. “The middle,” he said. “Read what you see there.”

  Arti obeyed, carefully pronouncing each strange word. “Ca litera ede castere. Ca stiva ede rizer. Ca crisa ede essent.”

  Gal frowned at her. “Where do you see that?”

  Arti looked at Merl for an explanation. The old man smiled like someone who had finally arrived at a destination after an incredibly long and arduous journey. There were tears in his eyes.

  “We can all see the first line on the page,” explained Merl. “It’s Old Ferencian and, translated, it means: Whoso pulleth the words of this tome shall challenge for the write of History.” He glanced at Gal. “But whereas the rest of the page appears as a jumble of random letters to you and me, for one person there is a message hidden there. The young man who just left is a local author of some renown. I thought it might be him, but I was wrong.” Merl wiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hand, smiling victoriously at Arti.

  “You are that person, Arti, and the words you have just uttered are in the same ancient dialect.
You said: The book is my shield. The pen is my sword. The ink is my blood. It is the oath of the Knights of Maren.”

  Merl sighed deeply, as if he’d just shrugged off the weight of the world. “After all these years of searching, I’ve finally found you.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It was the first time in many years that Morgan Fay felt the curious mix of uncertainty and apprehension she recognized as fear.

  The Challenger has come.

  In the days following the appearance of those four words she couldn’t lift her eyes from the tome, watching hour after hour, day after day, as each character slowly materialized on the page, praying the usurper’s whereabouts would eventually be revealed. But The History would divulge nothing, and with her patience wearing thin, Fay decided to act. What one part of the Grail Tome denied, another might reveal. She would consult The Meditations—and wield her pen.

  Fay knew how dangerous it was. All words have inherent power amplified through a scribe’s imagination and skill. Flowing from a master’s hand they become greater than the sum of their parts, affecting the world beyond them in ways one would not think possible. The ultimate expression of that power was The Meditations, a collection of ancient passages so sublimely crafted that after decades of careful study, Morgan Fay was still wary of their potency.

  Though her mastery of them was tenuous at best, The Meditations had served Fay well. Through them she had infused her ubiquitous Network with a drug-like quality, hypnotic and compelling in its effects. Not long after its inception, most of Corben’s citizens were addicted to the continuous flow of images streaming across their vidlink screens. The magic embedded in the Network’s video weakened their will, making them more compliant and obedient until they finally submitted to Fay’s authority, surrendering a great deal more than their country’s name.

  A picture is worth a thousand words. Show, don’t tell. You are the Corporation.

  Without protest, new laws were enacted. Vidlinks were to be carried by citizens at all times, and owning books was a crime. Schools banned novels and texts, signs were removed from streets and store fronts; almost overnight, all forms of writing vanished north of the Coin Canal.